Wheeeeeere’s your head aaaaaat???

One of the biggest to ever do it.

Head-popping, show-stopping, hit-making party-starters du jour.

A high-vis Rendez-Vu for you, and a shoe.

Topping the cake at 18, the Basement Jaxx Live extravaganza.

Before they were tackling princes in gorilla suits, Felix Buxton and Simon Ratcliffe were princes of London’s underground. The pair layered the sounds of 90s Brixton – Caribbean, South Asian, Brazilian and UKG – into a feverishly inventive update on UK house music.

As the century turned, they produced a royal flush of the noughtie’s biggest bangers. Every dancefloor, subwoofer and iPod shuffle vibrating to a Basement beat. 

Where’s Your Head At. Romeo. Do Your Thing. Get Me Off. Good Luck. Red Alert. Bingo Bango. Jump ‘N Shout.

Humongous hits. 

Kaleidoscopic records that built worlds, Remedy and Rooty wrapped pop up in a big beat bear hug. Loop-de-looping the globe, these generational party-starters planted seeds for EDM’s breakout, and even hyperpop, twenty years on.

“Rooty is a very prophetic album — a 5G release in the era of dial-up.”

After 10 years on ice, Basement Jaxx have resurrected their storied live show. Dancers, singers, spaceships, bells, whistles, Aunty in a gorilla suit? 

Come prepared for anything.

Lose your cool. Lose your head. Lean in, do your thing like it’s Apollo ‘98.

Basement Jaxx x GP XVIII.

Nobody Gets What They Want Anymore? 

Stuff that.

Marlon Williams. Prime Time, in The Sup’. Joined by The Yarra Benders, in their fullest form, plus a local Kapa Haka group, to perform songs from his new te reo Māori album, Te Whare Tīwekaweka. Sensational.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when Marlon reached the summit. Maybe it was when he wrote Dark Child? Signed to Dead Oceans? Opened for Springsteen? Starred in a Hollywood movie with Gaga? Played on Conan? Snuck in a Babs cover?

No matter. It seems that each step up was leading him back home. A reconnection to his Ngāi Tahu and Ngāi Tai heritage, Marlon’s latest is immense. Sunlit bluegrass, gauzy dabs of Pasifika pop, He Waka Kōtuia harmonies, a delicate tangle of whānau, silliness and story. A gift from the peak.

Haehaea te marama, maringi toto miraka
Tīramarama atu, e kimi ake rā

Marlon by moonlight. Saturday.

So put your hands around my body
I am yours and your, boy, only

Smerz write songs like they’ve hacked your 4am post-party group chat. Bleary, lusty art-pop that dazzles and blitzes. They’re at the bar, riding home, hung over, in like, out of love. 

Catharina and Henriette hoover up cultural ephemera and spin it into genre-crushing weirdness. Conjuring a dream state that’s plugged right into life’s goo. If you’re not already obsessed with Smerz, maybe it’s time to join the club.

Uhhh

The Norwegian pair stumbled out of Denmark’s iconic Rhythmic Music Conservatory, 2017’s club-smudged Okey in their mitts. Since then there’s been the womb-y dancefloor wonk of Have fun, collabs with Scandi vocal ensembles, a spot on NTS, classical music adventures, and 2025’s likely-okay-lets-call-it album of the year, Big city life.

On their first ever visit to our shores. Saturday at dusk. Divine.

Let’s get Smerzed.

In Golden Colours. 

Who better to pop the cork at GP’s big bash? 

Adored. Certified tizz senders. Cutters’ music is woven into the fabric of The Sup’. Every time they arrive, something special happens. They make Moments out of molehills. Rain out of dust. Dancefloors out of eskies.

Lights and music
are on my mind

Doing it for two decades, but never doing it over. Cut Copy were soundtracking euphoria before Zendaya. From the jacked-up neon rush of In Ghost Colours to the dazzling groove of Zonoscope and icy shimmer of Freeze, Melt, Dan and co keep stepping round blind corners. Cut Copy exists out of time. Compulsively seeking kaleidoscopic rhythms. Forever finding magic through movement. Freeing minds, one beat at a time.

Their latest, lucky seven, is a luminous love letter to The Moment. Here and now. A musical imprint of togetherness. Stacked with the kinda songs that’ll make you want to reach out for mates, tonight.

Hearts On Fire, Heart of Saturday.

A voice that could make the sun rise. Just wait ‘til you hear Jalen soar. 

Hearing My Girl at age 11 rewired Jalen Ngonda’s brain. He quit video games, bought a Fender, scratched up on Motown, discovered he could sing (and we mean sing), hopped on a one-way flight from Maryland across the pond to Liverpool, studied music, made some friends, played some shows, Daptone called, Come Around and Love Me arrived.

Jalen’s debut feels like the first hop of a long scotch. Pale threads of psychedelia weave about songs that slip and slide from way-back-then to here-and-now. Both of a time, and of its time. All of it in service to the kind of once-in-a-generation voice that’d turn even the hardest nut into a quivering mess of PB&J.

“It’s jarring to call it old music. It’s just the music that I like. People have often wanted to make me sound more contemporary, but I am contemporary. I’m alive and I’m making music that hasn’t existed before.”

Elton loves him. Kehlani digs it. Aunty can’t get enough. And Jalen just keeps offering up gem after gem.

As the dust settles and the rays slide.

Sunglasses and goosebumps. Sunday.

A Golden guitar hero returns.

Great riffs don’t arrive by post. They materialise like smoke on the water from the depths of Ty Segall’s cerebellum. Fragmented blasts of rock ‘n’ roll. Blistered rattles of psychedelia. Coalescing into a discog so prolific, even Wiki has lost count. Always scratching about the cosmos for a new tip, the boy from Laguna Beach has spent the last decade riding an exploratory purple patch as mythic as the Anakie Fairy Park.

Ty writes songs like someone death-staring an eclipse. Retinas (and labels) be damned. Deep-fried garage-psych, dank prog punk, anti-guitar synth slop, freewheeling glam, flinty folk charm. Anything goes. Dedicated to the dark art of free thinking in a world of predictive text, each move Ty makes feels like an intrepid act of creative resistance.

His newest flips the coin right back to the bedroom jams that started it all. Paying homage to the Greats. It’s big, bold, classic rock ’n’ roll – Ty Segall style. 

With his incendiary band in tow.

Shred like no-one’s watching.

An eruption of spiritual punk, Afrobeat, hip hop and funk. All wound up by an energy force so colossal it could slingshot the moon to Andromeda.

All aboard, when OB steps up.

His star’s been rising for a decade, but somehow it feels as though Obongjayar has just arrived. Like an angel gnawing on boulders, Obongjayar’s gravelly falsetto and hyper-energetic grind has tipped the ears of everyone. Little Simz, Richard Russell, Danny Brown, Fred again. His debut LP was technicolour. Scooping up his Nigerian roots and rolling it out with a London stutter. Loved by critics, adored by peers.

On Paradise Now, Obongjayar has truly Nailed His Vibe. Pulling together every thread from the last 10, it’s OB at the top of his game.

“A globalised omnivorous popstar emerges”

Exploding across the Plains for a Full Body shakedown.

The Grand Papi of House. 

From Studio 54 to the Golden d-floor. 

“There’s no-one quite like François. He’s driven, a genius, encyclopaedic, undimmable.”

François Kevorkian pioneered club culture. Coming up in ‘75 alongside the first wave of NYC DJs, he worked it out with legends like Larry Levan at Paradise Garage, The Loft, Studio 54. Teaching himself how to make edits on a reel-to-reel with a razor blade and Scotch tape, his mixes were fast in hot demand. Disco Done Different.

Everyone wanted the FK rizz. Arthur Russell, Kraftwerk, The Cure, Diana Ross, U2, Mick Jagger. He opened Axis Studios and helmed Wave Recording – certified institutions. Reimagining what dance music could be. And what it would become.

“Existing in a quadrant of the universe that few others inhabit.”

From his 90s dance party Body & SOUL, with Krivit and Claussell, through to his solo work today – François continues to thirst for new innovations. The show he’s bringing to The Sup’ is no exception. He calls it a Live Stems Set. Using new technology to isolate individual strands of multi-track recordings, he creates live, totally improvised remixes, going deep inside the dub and playing classics as you’ve never heard them. A World of Echoes.

Musique, In The Bush, Sunday arvo.

All the way with Mr K.

In the words of Bruce McAvaney: “Leeeeegends.” 

Mick Harvey, Mick Turner, Adalita, Marty Brown. Divined from a random jam at Headgap, this super-natural-group clicked together as smoothly as a Meccano set. Each cog turning in perfect time for the other. Strange Love is the sum of their parts. Bruising, caustic and a little bit funny, it’s alchemic and iconic. A record that sounds like it’s always existed. 

“Occasionally the musical universe offers unexpected gifts that we might never have thought to ask for and had no right to expect.”

Ads and Harvey on vox, Turner on guitar and Brown behind the tubs. Hooboy, is this gonna be speeeeecial.

Squad goals. Sunday arvo.

One, two, three, four
I count mountains

Rachel Brown and Nate Amos are a Brooklyn-based duo making indie that comes at you like a gold rush in a dream. Sifting nuggets that smudge and shimmer at odd angles, that melt into fine jewellery and get super-glued with jibbitz. Crunchy guitars, dreamy melodies, dance-punk grooves, ambient swirls, krautrock lock-ins, cosmic musings, synth-pop lift-offs, jazz-spiked breakdowns, folk rock jam-alongs, and straight-up electro-pop bangers. The occasional stab at a Frusciante-style solo. It’s all delivered with a deadpan charm, in the exact right dosage for digital brain rot in the dog days epoch. Their new album rocks and is called It’s A Beautiful Place.

Practice, shake it, two, three
Practice shake it, you’re free

Body to body, we couldn’t get more electric
Body to body, we couldn’t get more electric

Lulu and Angel Prost are Missouri-born siblings with emo in their hearts and an EDM glint behind their eye shadow. Over the past few years, they’ve made hyperpop that zooms and bubbles, indie that soars and screams, and dreamy ditties for when you’re eating oats from a mug and falling in love. It’s all led to SISTER – a massive set of dubstep and electro-pop that comes at you like a sled down a frozen chute. Packed with peaks that shake the snow from trees and drops that base-jump from towering escarpments.

Hold on by your fingertips, and catch their ride into the night.

The technician. The artist. The triple-deck virtuoso. On Saturday night, we get in and under the tangled wildness with Djrum.

This Oxford-based producer and selector is a classically trained pianist and an absolute soothsayer behind the ones, twos and threes. His productions are known for sending gorgeous melodies and intricate drum sequences ducking and weaving through the stereo. As a DJ, he takes that sense of restless innovation and flicks the switch to battle mode.

With three vinyl mixers on the go, he plate-juggles between techno, hip hop, ragga, breakcore, gabber, jazz, soul and whatever’s in the record bag on a given night. BPM and genre shifts let him open the seams and colour in new passages with drone or scratched-up ambient. Maybe a snippet from Arthur Russell or a stray bar of classical. It’s all in service of keeping things fresher than a shower token.

Pa ra pa pa pum, mother-suppers.

A Golden Sunday afternoon is seldom lacking for nourishment. But it may be reaching Max Potential with the help of the Baltimore-born artist with the velvet voice.

Marcus Brown makes post-R&B that groove-slides on the face of the doomsday clock. He came up with Nourished by Time while living in his parent’s basement – feeding the anxiety of the lockdown days through his Roland synth, electric guitar and copy of Ableton. Over two acclaimed albums and an EP, he’s honed a resonant frequency. Stories of solidarity, hard graft and catharsis told through electro-funk, new wave and hip-house. With its edges blurred by dream-pop and its energy grounded in the earthly pleasures of what he can do with a mic.

Hell of a Ride. Before Monsieur K.

Colossal. Punk’s not dead, it’s just been waiting for Upchuck. Mikey, Hoff, Chris and KT collided doing kickflips in Atlanta. It started old school. Playing parties, no socials, a couple of scratchy demos, a live show that got mythic by mouth. Upchuck just played, and played really f***ing well. Brooklyn doyens of DIY, Famous Class, put out their debut – a gut-gorging excavation of punky gunk and seething social distillations. It’s been lowkey turbo ever since. Playing with Amyl, Gizz, OSEES, Off!, co-signs from Iggy and Hank. More recently, a couple of scintillating back-to-back drops under the tutelage of good mate and guy-that-knows-a-thing-or-two-about-riffs Ty Segall.

Upchuck
He’s stuck
Must be lies
Give him luck
Give him up
He’s on fire

“Get ready to pop that mouthguard in and swing for the hills”.

Revolution in the half pit. Sunday.

Set the controls to Pure Imagination. 

Few have done it as well and long as Crazy P. House heads who found the funk, Chris and Jim pick-pocketed club energy and razzled it up with deep-disco sizzle. Expanding the mood with bandmates Danielle, Tim and Matt, they cooked up decades of dancefloor heaters, delivered with the limb-flinging dazzle of a 70s soul review. 

The Wicked Is Music is a time-stamp of Millennium Britain, with a tail so long it’s still bubbling up in mixes to this day. But it didn’t stop there. Every other year they’ve brought a stack of new pot-stickers. Stop Space Return. Cruel Mistress. One True Light. Like A Fool. Heartbreaker. Innovators invested in the feel, their touch remains magnetic. Nowhere more so than on Any Signs of Love, Crazy P’s final with inimitable singer and creative force Danielle Moore, who tragically died in 2024.

Carrying on the legacy in a different form, Chris and Jim are back to basics behind the decks. Returning to where it all began. Delivering ecstatic ebullient disco-fried sets that roll through all the hits, and then some.

Make a wish, Sunday nite.

A troubadour in a hoodie, riding a cross-country bus with the cowboys and angels. Mending hearts like new, with lullabies and glue.

This Is Lorelei is the project of Nate Amos. The man is a wellspring of tunes, his Bandcamp like a bedroom strewn with trinkets and keepsakes. Wistful folk, ambient sketches, clattering electro experiments, honky-tonk stompers, organ vignettes, auto-tuned pop, Ween covers, and pristine three-chord indie. Crack your favourite fizzy drink and hang in there some time. Or go direct to his first ‘proper’ album, Box For Buddy, Box for Star – a set that distills his DIY audacity into a tight hum-along package. Superb songs that have invited covers by Snail Mail, Waxa and MJ Lenderman. High rotation on Aunty’s road trip north this year.

Nate will be joined by some bandmates from Water From Your Eyes as they make a weekend of it. Sunday.

Georgia Knight has emerged from the chrysalis, autoharp in hand. After catching hearts with her bruising EP Hell on Bent Street, this Melbourne fave went in search of something new. Sinewy synthscapes, dusty trip-hop, blooms of widescreen pop. The shoe fit. GK’s metamorphosis was complete. Her debut album, Beanpole, is a little bit of its moment, a little bit of its past. A buzzing beauty stuck together by a voice so spectral it’ll give the ghost gums chills.

I’m looking to start fresh, looking to start anew

Digging in under dappled rays.

Kee’ahn is unfurling. Since arriving with Better Things, the Yalanji, Jirrbal, and Badulaig artist has been reflecting and refracting, finding space in R&B that dips, and pop that wiggles. Making sunsets and catching the night. Their name comes from the Wik Mungkan word ‘kee’an’ meaning to dance, and to play. A lifelong pursuit. Recently, Kee’ahn’s voice has hit something new, springing into deep grooves and feather-top melodies on Heavy, and all across new EP For Me, For You. Sublime.

Settle into a groove. Sunday.

Some serious saz-funk on a Sunday.

Derya Yıldırım & Grup Şimşek play Anatolian folk wrapped in a laid-back psychedelic haze – like grinning purple clouds over the Taurus Mountains. 

Born in Hamburg to Turkish parents, Derya loved the way her grandmother would sing slanted takes on old folk tunes. So she decided to twist some of those tried-and-true melodies her way and write some of her own while she was at it. The hypnotic pull of the original energy is all grooved out and scuzzed up, Derya’s falsetto drenched in reverb while she effortlessly wails on her bağlama, a seven-stringed Turkish lute. Meanwhile her band, Grup Şimşek, hold it down with soulful rhythms and pied-piping Mellotron keys. Yarın Yoksa is their latest and greatest, produced by Leon of El Michels Affair.

They’re calling you down to Hop Bico and release a bit of freak-o.

Eighteen’s final crescendo, shaped by one of London’s finest. Dawn is breaking, the galahs are chi-chi-ing, the bass bins are humming. Everything is a-OK.

OK Williams has that special knack. Gliding through genres and moods, knowing a dancefloor’s dynamics, crafting moments of transcendence or gleeful left turns. She plays freeform blends of bassy floor-busters, blissful house, techno, jungle, hip hop, electro. As likely to weave in some Blackout-era Britney as the latest Hessle heater. 

From Draaimolen to Dweller, she’s notching up a stellar rep that has her sets being spoken of in increasingly reverent tones. You may also know her from NTS, where she got her start as a DJ, produced Andrew Weatherall’s show, and where her multidimensional radio shows are now a station staple. 

Early bird gets the wormhole.

The maestro from Milano.

The terraforming performer and starlit explorer.

A DJ who can conjure club sweat with banging house, trance and techno. A record store wanderer capable of heady journeys into psychedelia, ambient, dub, folk and spiritual jazz. An art director who once presented a live show based on volcanic field recordings and went to Stromboli to make twelve hours of radio with Gigi Masin. 

Behind the decks she’s strictly vinyl, and generally curates her sets into two categories: the ‘cosmic’ (rhythmic trips that dissolve borders and genres) and the ‘earthly’ (straight-out-the-gate, four-on-the-floor bodily experiences). 

She’s playing deeeep into Sunday night. Are we reaching for the treetops? Or the cosmos? Only one way to find out.

Y2K club pop with the 2560 twist. Rising out of Campbelltown, Kamilaroi/Samoan artist Becca Hatch has been mixing up that Hotter Out West energy with future-facing r’n’b for the last few. Like a slinky uncoiling on ice, Becca’s glossy vocal touch has already been vibed by Timbaland and clocked by Coldplay. Rippling out hits B The One, Safety and Without You, her vibrations have been swiftly heading cirrocumulus. Debut Mayday gathers all the steam and sends it straight to the dancefloor. The Bass Keeps Calling.

Down the Hatch, Saturday late.

Sidney Phillips is a new star of the Aus rap underground. She’s from Morayfield, North of Brisbane and based on Gubbi Gubbi land, and also from the Internet. Along with her collective stealthyn00b, she makes “adlay pluggnb” music, taking inspo from cloud rap, digicore, memes, Minecraft, Wicca Phase, The Beatles, IGET vapes, and catching the train. Sidney’s shows around the country are packed out with a fiercely loyal young audience, shouting lyrics back with giant grins and/or spiritual epiphanies.

I’m So Tired of Being Staunchly. Saturday.

My tank is always running
And I’ll leave the light on for ya
Cos my baby’s onto something
Cos my baby’s onto something

Evie Vlah and Gigi Argiro are Public Figures. And they’re Onto Something. Punk with purpose, earworms galore, songs that dive headfirst into identity, power, and resistance. Delivered with explosive honesty and an infectious energy. It’s only taken them a couple of big tunes to cut through, and there’s plenty more on the way. Joined by Lakota Vella and Mary-Lou Hylands, the band rips. 

Long Blink and you’ll catch ‘em. Saturday.

Yes, all on the one and only stage. Take a spot in the Amphitheatre and don’t move, until you can’t help but be moved.

No timetable clashes – you miss nothing unless you choose to.

Years of planning go into the shape of every LineUp so it is custom cut for all the various times of day and night, as well as those glorious in-between times.

History both local and epic. Golden Plains takes place on Wadawurrung Country, and Uncle Barry lets us in on precisely what that means.

Heart full of passion, head full of knowledge, and a gift for the gab.

Get into your favourite listening position late morning Sunday.

A disputed fact, maybe. But true nonetheless. Silence is Golden. At least for a time.

Some years it goes for longer, some years for shorter. If this will be your first time here, you’ll want to catch Silence Is Golden. It happens in the early morning, at dawn or just before dawn.